


two more wake ups

by Bellamyed



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, F/M, Mutual Masturbation, Phone Sex, Sexting, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 07:36:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4470806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bellamyed/pseuds/Bellamyed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy is away on a business trip, and he texts Clarke because he's bored. Things get heated.</p><p> </p><p>[written for an anonymous bellarke + sexting prompt from tumblr]</p>
            </blockquote>





	two more wake ups

It’s nearly 8 p.m. and Clarke’s been on her feet for the past twelve hours. The community art center that she runs downtown is popular; they have day and night classes for beginners, along with specialized, more advanced classes for the regulars. They have a well-organized system worked out, and usually, the volunteer instructors are only asked to work a few nights a week.  
  
But this week, two instructors bailed at the last minute, and their classes fell into Clarke’s lap. She was happy to take them, mostly because she enjoys the students, but adding that to a full workload is tedious. By the time she closes up the center and sets the alarm, her eyelids are drooping shut.  
  
The worst part of it, though, is going home to an empty apartment.  
  
Dating a professor does have its perks, Clarke will be the first to tell you that. He wears these ridiculously sexy reading glasses when he grades papers, and when he starts to give quasi-lectures about all the failures of the League of Nations in the middle of their living room, she doesn’t even try to hide how turned on she gets.

But Bellamy isn’t at home waiting for her when she trudges into their three bedroom loft, haphazardly tossing her coat and keys onto the kitchen table. He’s halfway across the country, starring in a guest lecture series about the European interwar period. They were both elated when he was asked to participate, but in practice, it’s a lot harder than she thought it was going to be.   
  
After a day like today, when her back is tense and her neck is barely mobile, Bellamy would help her with the knots under her skin, rubbing them out until she felt weightless, slumping into his chest. His foot massages were criminally good, and if it was a _really_ long day, they’d sink into the tub and he’d get her off with his fingers while she lay her head in the crook of his neck.   
  
She misses him. And his fingers.

At 9:02 p.m., a text comes in, causing her phone to buzz underneath the pile of junk she’d thrown on the table. She hops up, knowing exactly know who it’s from, and settles onto the dark blue sectional before opening it.

 __  
[Did you know that history is boring sometimes?]  
  


Clarke snorts, but a huge, stupid grin spreads on her lips. He’s two hours behind, and probably sitting in on one of the other guest lecturers. She does not envy him.  
  


_[Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?]_ she types back quickly.  
  


_[Hey, if you don’t know how to command a crowd, don’t give lectures. All I’m saying.]_  
  


She’s still grinning, typing out her reply when another text comes in.  
  


_[What are you wearing?]_  
  


She laughs out loud, looking down at her whitewashed denim jeans, dirty socks, and the paint-spotted black tank top that’s too big for her in all the wrong places.  
  


_[Really? We’re doing that?]_  
  


_[C’mon. Entertain me. Please.]_  
  


She sighs, leaning back onto the couch so she can spread her legs out fully.  
  


_[I don’t think you getting a hard-on in the middle of a lecture is a good idea, Bell.]_  
  


_[I’m in the back. It’s dark. Just humor me.]_  
  


Clarke looks around their apartment, her cheeks already starting to tint pink. She decides that if they’re going to do this, she’s going to milk it for all its worth. Sitting up, she strips herself of the tank top, leaving just her plain black bra and jeans. She settles back down, unbuttoning her jeans but leaving them loose around her hips.

  
_[Fine. I’m in my bra, and those really awful whitewashed jeans.]_  
  


_[I like those jeans. Which bra?]_  
  


_[The black one with the paint on it. Which else?]_  
  


_[Good point.]_  
  


She smiles to herself, and she can see the bubble beneath his last text that tells her he’s typing something else.  
  


_[I can’t even see you right now and I know you look unbelievably sexy.]_  
  


The blush reaches her chest, and she thinks about taking off her bra, but then decides better of it. They’ve played this game before, and if he wants it, he can ask for it.  
  


_[I’m sure you don’t look too bad yourself. Probably all dressed up with your fancy glasses on.]_  
  


_[Oh yeah? What would you do if I walked in the door right now?]_  
  


Her heart clenches at the thought. She wishes he would.  
  


_[Well, obviously, I’d kiss you. A good, long, slow kiss. My favorite kind. What would you do?]_  
  


_[I haven’t seen you in four days, Clarke. I’d probably lift you off of the ground the second I got the door shut, just to feel your legs wrapped around me.]_  
  


The telltale signs of her arousal are starting to surface, and he hasn’t even said anything explicit yet.  
  


_[Take off your bra for me.]_ The next text says, and she obliges happily.  
  


_[Done. Now what?]_  
  


Her breasts are bare now, sitting perkily as her hips start to move on their own accord. She already knows what he would do; after four years of dating, they know each other like the back of their hands. Bellamy is--to put it lightly--obsessed with Clarke’s breasts, and he has no shame in letting her know.  
  


_[If I were there, I’d lay you down on the kitchen table so we wouldn’t have to walk all the way to the couch. Then, I’d take one of them into my mouth. I’d suck on the nipple until it was hard, and then give the other its due attention, until you’re writhing beneath me, begging me to touch you somewhere else.]_  
  


She’s definitely wet now, and she slides her jeans off easily, kicking them onto the rug next to the couch.  
  


_[I wish you were here so you could put your hands on me. I miss your fingers inside of me.]_  
  


_[I know, baby. Are your jeans off now?]_  
  


_[Duh.]_  
  


_[Good. Touch yourself through your panties. Rub on your clit with your thumb the way I do.]_  
  


She does, and when she closes her eyes at the sensation, she thinks about Bellamy’s hands instead of her own, calloused and large, rubbing gently against her center.  
  


_[Are you wet?]_  
  


It’s getting harder to respond, but she manages.  
  


_[Dripping.]_  
  


_[Fuck, Clarke.]_  
  


She’s still touching herself, putting more pressure on her thumb as it rubs at her clit, when she hears the buzz of another text.  
  


_[I want you to fuck yourself with your fingers, Clarke. Ride them like you do with mine.]_  
  


Clarke lets out a guttural moan at that, and sinks her index finger into her wet heat. It’s him, it’s all him, and with her eyes closed she can picture him on top of her, propping up his weight with one elbow while his free hand fucks her. He’d rub his palm against her clit as she rode him, and just the thought of it is causing Clarke’s stomach to knot up, pleasure contorting her face as she arcs off of the couch.  
  


_[It feels so good, but not as good as you.]_  
  


The apartment is silent apartment from her breathy moans, so when his ringtone sounds, it startles her. She opens one eye to see his name across the screen atop a _devastatingly_ sexy picture of him on his 30th birthday, staring into the camera with the classic Blake smirk. She picks up quickly, and selects the speaker option, setting it on the cushion near her face.  
  
“Don’t stop, please,” he says, and his voice is low and rough, the way it gets when they’re so wrapped up in each other that they can barely see straight.  
  
“I’m not,” and she doesn’t, she keeps pumping her finger in and out, chewing on her bottom lip as she listens to him breathing heavily through the phone. “Are you alone now?” she asks, voice completely wrecked.

“I walked out about halfway through our conversation. Good thing my room is on the first floor, huh?” 

“Are your pants off yet?” she asks, and she hears him struggle to get them off.

“They are now. What should I do next?”   
  
Her eyes slide shut at the image of him in his hotel room, hard as a rock beneath his boxer briefs.

“Touch yourself. Through your briefs. Like I do.”  
  
He doesn’t say much after that, but she can hear him grunt as he does what she says.   
  
“I’m taking my underwear off now. You do the same,” Clarke tells him, and she shimmies out of the pink thong, tossing it next to her jeans on the floor.   
  
“Add another finger, Clarke,” he says in an authoritative way that gets her all kinds of bothered, and she listens.   
  
“ _Fuck_ ,” she says, turning her face so that her mouth is near the speaker.  
  
“Good, baby. Just like that,” he says, and his breathy pants tell her that he’s pumping his cock with his fist.

“How does it feel?” he asks.   
  
“It feels so fucking good, Bell. I’m pretending it’s you.”   
  
He lets out a moan that nearly pushes her over the edge, but she holds back.   
  
“Spit on your hand. I want it to be slick, like mine would be,” she says, barely coherent as she lifts her hips up, riding her fingers. She hears him spit into his hand, and the guttural sound that escapes his throat when he returns to his cock is one she wishes she could memorize.

“Fuck, Clarke,” he says roughly.   
  
“I’m close, babe,” and she is, she can feel the pull in her belly as she listens to him breathe, interrupted by whimpers as he continues to jack himself off.

“I am too. Give me another finger.”   
  
She listens, her mouth falling open at the sensation, the stretch.

“Bell-- _Bell_ ,” she utters out, and she can hear his breathing start to quicken.

“Come for me, baby. Come on.”   
  
She explodes around her fingers, the moan that leaves her mouth echoes through the apartment as she does, her body going stiff. Her back is arched and her fingers lay dormant inside her heat, and she can hear him getting closer.

“F--fuck, _fuck_ ,” he mutters out, and lets out a long, shaky sigh as he comes.

They’re both quiet for a few minutes as they come down, and Clarke whimpers when she slides her fingers out. They’re slick with come, and she smiles into the phone at the sight of them.

“How many days left?” she asks, now sated and verging on exhausted.

“Just two more, pretty girl. Two more wake ups,” he replies, his voice still a little off.   
  
Her smile gets wider, and when she asks him to read a copy of his lecture to her so she can hear his voice while she falls asleep, he does so happily.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [come hang out with me](http://oktevia.tumblr.com) :)


End file.
